


Duty Done

by SheoftheTea



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Banter, Fluff, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, at least a little bit anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21735247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheoftheTea/pseuds/SheoftheTea
Summary: Most dwarves are lucky to find but a single One in their lifetimes, and those blessed with two or more loves are few and far between.Many go their entire lives without ever finding a One at all.Such rare treasures warrant nothing but the greatest care, years of work and patience, carving a bond as strong and solid as stone. And Dwalin will not risk cracks in their friendship in his over-eagerness for more. Not when Thorin needs him most.
Relationships: Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26
Collections: Have A Happy Hobbit Holiday 2019





	Duty Done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Middle_Earth_Mama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Middle_Earth_Mama/gifts).



> For the HHH Secret Santa. My prompter said they liked angst, so I tried to slip some of that in there. However, I've more or less been reading nothing but fluff for the last month straight, so it might not have come out angsty enough? I don't know, I just hope this at least kinda fits what you were after. Happy Holidays!

He remembered well the Thorin of youth, back when the Mountain flourished and the old king ruled. When first they’d met, Thorin had looked less a king so much as a raven hatchling; black hair, pointed beak, long, gangly limbs—to think, a gangly dwarf! They’d always grown tall among Durin’s line, but on Thorin the extra height made him look borderline _elvish_.

Balin had stood at Dwalin’s already-broadening back, solemn and proud as befitting an audience with the King and his heirs. As their parents had discussed training schedules and joint lessons and other dullness, Balin had leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“You’re gaping. Shut your mouth before something decides to build a nest in it or the Prince takes you for a fool, or both.”

“Don’t they feed him?” Dwalin had whispered back. Bustling trade with Dale and beyond, the treasury overflowing with gold and their prince still stood thin?

“Dwalin, show some respect,” Balin didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. “You’re to be his training companion from this day forth. Play your cards right, and someday you might be captain of his guard.”

“Guard? Him? I’ve seen kindling with more might.”

“Then you’ll have your work cut out for you.” And with that he’d straightened and shifted his attention back to the discussions at hand, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lip.

Well, bugger him then. Dwalin glared and glanced back at the Prince, only to find he was already being watched. He froze as he felt the Prince study him, head cocked to the side. After a long moment, the other dwarfling grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

 _The eyes are nice_ , Dwalin had thought at the time. A nice, regal blue. Not that pretty eyes made any difference when it came to keeping the idiot alive.

But still, nice.

***

Of course, he did have his work cut out for him. Whether it was keeping Thorin from breaking his neck scaling the stone guards at the gate, or making sure he didn’t drown himself in the river or get lost exploring the darkest mining tunnels, Dwalin never lapsed in his duty in keeping Erebor’s prince whole and hale.

The fact that it was Dwalin goading him into such mischief half the time was irrelevant and was no mark against his dedication to duty.

***

“I can’t believe you got away with shaving your own head.”

Dwalin grunted, deflecting his next strike. “S’not like I took it all off. Think I did a fair job, considering.”

Their swords met with an echoing _clang_. Blades locked, Thorin glanced at Dwalin’s new mohawk, framed on either side by grooves of freshly bald skin. Meeting Dwalin’s eye between their blades, he gave him a pitying wince.

“You’re lopsided.”

“Bastard.”

Another clash of metal and Thorin danced away, his laughter ringing out across the practice field. Dwalin glared. For all Thorin had put on strength and muscle over the years, he was still light on his feet. “I’ll have you know there’s not a thing wrong with my hair. Newest trend, this is.”

Thorin looked sceptical. “Is that what you told Fundin?” He wiped the sweat from his brow. The sun had risen high on this side of the mountain. “And he bought that?”

Dwalin didn’t rise to the bait, focusing instead on tracking his opponent’s movements. Eyes steady, keep to form. Don’t let his guard down.

Thorin circled him, scratching his beard. “Can’t say I’ve seen the look around. Think I’d have noted that, if sane dwarrow suddenly started going about their business with privy brushes on their heads—”

Dwalin struck. Thorin parried, damn him. He was a slippery one, his prince.

“Well if _someone_ had stuck around to help instead of running like a coward—”

“So you admit you bungled it!” He pushed the advantage. “And of course I ran! Could you imagine what Balin would do, if he knew I’d helped you do _that_ to your head? You’re lucky I kept him distracted as long as I did.”

“Scared of him, are you?” Decided on a plan of attack, lunged forward. _“Coward.”_

“Your brother’s terrifying. He’s got those eyebrows—” _Crash_ , clang!

“They’re _my_ eyebrows—!” Shink, _ching!_

“—And you’ll wish you’d had his wisdom when _that_ _—_ ” he jerked his head at Dwalin’s mohawk as he struck once, twice.—“falls out and leaves you bald.”

 _Clatter_ , thud.

Thorin grinned down at Dwalin, sprawled in the dirt. “It’s bad luck, shaving hair in our youth.” 

Dwalin held his glare, breath coming hot and fast between them. Then he kicked out, swiping Thorin’s leg from under him. As Thorin yelped, Dwalin grabbed his sword from where he’d dropped it beside him and surged up, slamming his shoulder into Thorin’s chest and knocking him to the ground. He held the blade to his throat, straddling his middle.

Dwalin watched as Thorin tried to catch his breath beneath him. It was a good look on him, dishevelled and knocked down a peg or two. Flat on his back. Under Dwalin.

He leaned in.

“Durins don’t bald, your highness,” he whispered. “The line of ’Lin least of all.”

For a moment they stayed like that, eyes locked and mouths just a breath apart, Dwalin’s hair and bulk blocking out the sun…

And then Thorin snorted. “There’s always a first.”

Dwalin rolled off him. Clearing his throat, he decided on a tactical retreat.

“That’s a bad habit, you got.” He sat and watched him. “Dropping your guard after you get the upper hand. Save your gawping until after you’ve secured victory. Elsewise, it might not be you walking away.”

Rolling his eyes, Thorin finally deigned to sit up. “You’re sounding more and more like old Fundin by the day.” He lifted the hem of his tunic to wipe his face, exposing taut muscle and a trail of hair leading down into his breeches.

That was plenty enough training for one day. Dwalin busied himself gathering up their equipment, trying to find order among his scattered thoughts.

_Save your gawping until after you’ve secured victory._

“Be honest, what did your father really say about the hair?”

_‘Fool lad. That’s what you get for rushing in. If you’re so desperate to catch another’s eye, there’re less idiot ways to go about it.’_

“He said I got it lopsided.”

***

Dwalin had always appreciated Thorin’s laugh. Especially as it deepened with years, grew rich and honeyed like fine mead. He could get drunk on it, if he wasn’t careful, find himself drowning out the air with his own great guffaws. Making a complete arse himself for no other reward than the sight of blue eyes wet with mirth.

There were more than a few times that Dwalin had to catch himself just before doing something truly stupid. How easy it would be during these moments—with Thorin’s eyes alight and his cheeks flushed, dark hair falling loose from royal braids as he sweeps it back to better take in his friend’s silliness—to just swoop in and steal a kiss or blurt out a long-held confession. Dwalin likes to think he’s not quite so foolish. He knows, of course, that these things must take time; dwarves are crafters in all things and in love perhaps most of all.

They’d have to be. Most dwarves are lucky to find but a single One in their lifetimes, and those blessed with two or more loves are few and far between. Many go their entire lives without ever finding a One at all. Such rare treasures warrant nothing but the greatest care, years of work and patience, carving a bond as strong and solid as stone. And Dwalin will not risk cracks in their friendship in his over-eagerness for more. Not when Thorin needs him most.

He’d noticed, of course, when Thorin’s laughter began to dry up. Mahal blessed Thorin with siblings, even as He took the good princess mother back to his forge. The added responsibility and grief both weighted heavily on the Mountain’s hope and heir. Thrain’s courage chipped and his will to counsel the king waned. Thror grew more erratic as his moods grew darker and his mind paranoid.

Dwalin’s own responsibilities mounted as he rose steadily through the ranks of the royal guard, and it became harder to find the easy fun they’d enjoyed before. It became harder to pull up the little chuckles and breathless mirth. That’s not to say he stopped trying; Dwalin was never one to back down from a challenge.

Training sessions and far-flung patrols, Erebor’s deepest forges and Dale’s best taverns. Long afternoons of babysitting Thorin’s siblings and avoiding Dwalin’s. There were always ways to make it work between them, and both their hearts were lighter for it.

***

And then came the day the dragon struck.

And then for a long time Dwalin wondered if he’d ever hear that laugh again, or if it too was lost among the ash and bones they’d left behind.

***

It seemed stupid, then, to worry about Ones and romance. If he was waiting for the right time, it bloody well wasn’t on the road out of Erebor, leading a once-proud people from town to town begging for scraps.

It wasn’t when the lads were born, Dis and Túli’s two little jewels lighting up their lives with fresh life, even as they struggled to keep them fed, let alone out of trouble.

It wasn’t at thrice-damned Azanulbizar, which had cost them so much and earned them so little. Some of them had walked away with newly earned epithets and glory worthy of ink on skin. But what was that to the loss of their King? And the loss of Thrain, and Túli and Fundin and, and, and…

And the time wasn’t right in Ered Luin, either, where they were all so desperate to just build a new life for themselves. There was food to ration and patrols to organise and mines to open and…

And through it all, Thorin’s eyes grew colder and his laugh less frequent and not once did Thorin give any indication he wanted more. Not from Dwalin, anyway. So no, it wasn’t the right time.

Dwalin began to wonder if the right time had long since passed.

Dwalin began to wonder if he’d ever had a chance at all.

***

“I spoke with Gandalf.”

Dwalin wondered if there had ever been a time when good news followed that phrase. He eyed Thorin over his ale.

“Did you ask if he had anything for hair growth?”

Thorin’s gaze momentarily flickered to Dwalin’s gleaming scalp. A corner of his mouth twitched. Most days, that was the most Dwalin could get out of him. But it was better than nothing and so he counted it as a victory.

“No,” murmured Thorin. He stared into his ale, scrying it's depths in the light of his fire. It wasn't long before he was launching into a long, convoluted tale about ancient keys and magic doors, mysterious burglars and— _hopefully_ —sleeping dragons.

Through it all Dwalin had sat and sipped his ale, waiting out Thorin’s long-winded explanation with the patience honed by over a century of listening to the bastard ramble. Eventually, Thorin was finished with his tale and Dwalin with his tankard.

They watched each other from across the table. Neither of them spoke. It was times like these that Dwalin fancied he could still see a hint of the raven in Thorin, sharp beak and ruffled feathers.

It was Thorin who broke first.

“Well?”

Dwalin stared solemnly into his tankard. He did not have enough ale for this.

“So let me get this straight,” Dwalin drawled. “You’ve got a map that shows the location of a magic invincible door on the Mountain, Gandalf’s been holding onto a key that can open the blasted thing, and you both reckon that with a good enough number of dwarves and some hobbit Gandalf swears by, you might be able to sneak past the dragon, grab the Arkenstone, and rally an army to get the Mountain back.”

Thorin nodded. “That is the gist of it, yes.”

There was a moment of silence as Dwalin mulled this over. “I think,” he started, “that both you and the wizard have gone completely mad.”

Sighing, Thorin rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That is a distinct possibility.”

Dwalin snorted, and got up. “Give me a few weeks and I’ll see who I can come up with.”

It stung a bit to see the look of sheer relief that wash over Thorin’s face at that moment, as if he’d seriously thought Dwalin would turn him down. But it was worth it to witness the warmth of the smile that followed, the gratitude in his eyes. And Mahal’s Halls, he hadn’t seen Thorin look this excited in ages.

There was never a question whether he’d be following Thorin on this mad quest or not. Whether Thorin was his One or not, he intended to stick with him to the end. Wherever that may lead.

**Author's Note:**

> Christ, I'm so sorry. I intended this to have a much happier ending, and to get Bilbo involved, but real life got in the way and I ran out of time. Good news is: I'm definitely writing a sequel in which that all happens! I'll try to get it up sometime in the next week.  
> Dwalin will get his prince, and his burglar too.


End file.
